Still
by doctoruth
Summary: Brittany and Santana and Valentine's.
1. Friday, February 13, 2009

The street lamp outside Santana's room streaks fingers around the curtains. The drapes have been pushed shut with such force-or maybe speed-that the plum material pulls away from some of the rungs in the middle of the rod. There's a triangle of orange light there; Santana fixes her gaze on it so she can avoid the shape at the base of the bed.

Brittany's still at the edge of her sight, though.

Santana refocuses on the triangle, and makes her brain fill up with regular things, like whether her mom will let her buy that skirt which shows off two inches more of her gradually lengthening thighs than anything in her own wardrobe. Brittany tugs her shirt over her head; Santana sees the flash of white and resets her thoughts, clenching her fists in time with math problems, staring at the orange triangle, refusing to turn her head.

Brittany exhales. Santana's mind is turning over quadratic equations and reciting numbers on a loop while her eyes trail after Brittany's sound. She's standing in her pink panties and gray bra and knee high socks and it's so all-at-once that Santana can't see her properly, at first. Then she looks up under a curtain of her hair, and words flash up in Santana's mind, like always when she thinks about Brittany's hair. Sometimes Santana sees Brittany's hair and her brain stalls; sometimes it parades a list of words like _bright _and _sheer_ that all seem to shade into _blonde_; sometimes she just thinks _thesaurus-thesaurus-thesaurus_, like that will stopper the words.

Brittany smiles-too sweet for a girl who gets up to more mischief than anyone knows, except Santana-and bites her bottom lip. "What, Santana?"

Santana smirks, in a rush, trying not to trail her eyes down Brittany's body too much-just enough that Brittany can see her admiration and nothing else-and says, "You're looking good, Britt." It's more than she usually offers. Once, she would never say anything; she'd just dance with Brittany to let her know she liked her more than she liked anyone else, on her toes, negotiating the gap between their heights, hands touching Brittany's body wherever possible. In the last few years, she's been leaving her hands longer in Brittany's hair, on her wrist, in Brittany's hands. In the last few weeks, since they started making out, she's starting saying things, little things, words matching some whispery unnamed thing that's there behind her own eyes; there's always a smirk on her face, her head is usually cocked, but she knows there's something sad-like on her face. She sees it reflected on Brittany's face right before she speaks: a little frown; Brittany counting up things in her head that won't make a whole number.

Brittany pulls a T-shirt over her head from the pile on Santana's dresser, but doesn't bother with anything else, just walks over and perches on her side of Santana's bed. As she shifts over to get closer to Santana, she reaches out and starts playing with Santana's left hand, which is still balled into a fist in bunches of bedspread.

Brittany unclenches one of Santana's fingers at a time, and then speaks. "When you tell me I look good, it makes me feel like a chocolate dessert."

Santana laughs at the back of her throat, and relaxes her hand further. "Like, gooey?"

Brittany looks shy, but still answers. "Yeah."

Santana swallows before speaking, then talks in a slightly higher voice than before, scratchy at the edges. "That's because I'm awesome, Britt, and you like me best. So when I tell you you look good, it means more."

Brittany pauses, then starts stroking Santana's fingers, sliding hers in between each of them, and running her palm over Santana's knuckles. "I think it's because you never tell anyone else they look good."

Santana frowns a little, then shakes her head. She casts her eyes around the room, shifting from the orange triangle at the top of her curtains, to her black and silver alarm clock, where the display is ticking over to 11:57. She stares at the display for a beat, before turning back to Brittany.

Brittany's moved closer, almost imperceptibly, but Santana knows because she can feel the warmth that comes off Brittany's skin, regardless of the month of year. Santana ignores the things in her peripheral vision, doesn't reply to Brittany's comment, and leans forwards, kissing Brittany softly and pulling on her hand to draw her in. She draws her other hand up to Brittany's hair, and pushes her fingers through it gently; she thumbs at the back of Brittany's neck; she breathes into Brittany's mouth and tells her things with no words.

When Santana pulls back, the clock says 12:14. Brittany follows her gaze, frowns at the clock, then smiles knowingly. She kisses Santana again.


	2. Monday, February 15, 2010

Ever since Rachel Berry's weird crush on Mr. Schue-or maybe since Billy Gerhardt got too attentive to Brittany during their double date with Santana and Puck yesterday, Brittany's not sure which-Santana's got a glint in her eye. It's a shine that says Santana's going to cause trouble in every direction she can. Brittany's not sure why, exactly, only that Santana's early excitement at being paired with Brittany for the Glee club's ballad assignment is bubbling out in a way that Brittany didn't see coming and can't quite figure out. Pacing around Brittany's bed while twisting the strands of hair in her ponytail around the fingers of one hand, Santana's cat-stalk reminds Brittany of the tigers at Columbus Zoo.

"Maybe we can send Berry a bunch of lame flowers and forge a card from Schue."

Brittany's paying too much attention to Santana's walk to hear properly. "Wait, what? Why would a shoe send flowers to Rachel?"

Santana stops pacing and sighs. "Seriously, Britt, where are you? I'm trying to plan Berry's crushing defeat at my awesome hands, and it's like you don't even care."

Brittany rolls off the edge of the bed and puts her body between Santana and the route Santana's been tracking over her carpet. "Santana. Wouldn't it be way more fun to practice songs for our ballad?"

Santana rolls her eyes, but Brittany can see her shoulders relax, so she takes Santana's hand and leads her to the bed, where she gently pushes Santana to a seated position while she walks over to her speakers, casting a grin back over her shoulder. "Come on. I'll dance for you if you sing for me."

"Fine. But don't think I've forgotten about Berry."

Brittany shrugs the remark off and thumbs through her iPod. She selects a song; a twang fills the corners of her room. Santana laughs as Brittany begins an exaggerated sway that promptly turns into a sexy kind of country dancing.

"Really, Britt? _Black Velvet_?"

Brittany grins while she dances. "What? It's the right kind of song, right?"

Santana is still laughing, but her eyes keep flickering down to Brittany's waist and hips as they move in time to the beat of the verses. "Yes, but… it's _so_ uncool."

Brittany has reached the edge of the bed just at the song's chord progression three quarters of the way through, and her face becomes serious as she starts to move more intently. She looks for Santana's eyes, trying to find in them why Santana is suddenly so preoccupied with Rachel Berry; all she sees is flitting pupils that won't stay looking at one thing, but dance from Brittany's face to her hair to her waist and then to the space to her left, and then they close, finally, as Santana shakes her head once. She looks like she's getting rid of a ringing in her ears. The track ends.

Another song starts up, and Santana opens her eyes. Brittany can't see any answers there, but something else, something.

While Brittany is trying to find the something, she finds herself being pulled down onto the bed, and then Santana is kissing her, really kissing her; not like she would kiss her a year ago, but like she kisses her _now_, harder, somehow braver and at the same time also much less brave in a way Brittany can't really name. Santana's underneath her, but then she's not-isn't that always how it goes?-and then Brittany's reeling, because there's something _more_ about the other something, and it's all she can do to hang on to Santana's waist, and kiss her back, see-sawing against Santana's brave-not brave with her own _Shhh, Santana, it's ok_. She knows Santana doesn't hear.

So she tries something else, instead: she runs her hands up and down Santana's back, over and over, and when Santana slows and pulls back from running her tongue inside Brittany's mouth, Brittany tucks hair that's hanging loose behind Santana's ear. She thinks, for a minute, that she can see her breath and Santana's breath meeting between them.

Santana's looking at her, now.


	3. Saturday, February 12, 2011

Santana debates dragging the first member of the football team she sees to Breadstix to pay for her dinner.

Then she considers slashing Lauren Zizes's tires.

She decides to do neither.

* * *

Outside Brittany's house, Santana can feel it's a bad idea to be there. She's biting back a flood of angry words; they're not for Brittany, really, but she knows if she sees her they'll likely spill out anyway. As she's turning on her heel, she hears the front door swing open. She pauses, but keeps walking.

"Santana?"

Santana can always walk away, but she's never been able to ignore Brittany when she asks for her, so she turns back, and half-shrugs, like she doesn't really care. "Hey, Britt."

"Why are you leaving?"

Santana bites her lip to stop from crying. As much as she cries in public-loudly, with abandon, not caring because it's always to get relief, never to feel something more than she already does-she doesn't like crying just in front of Brittany. "I just remembered I-"

Brittany doesn't even let her finish. "What about our pre-Valentine's Day date?"

"Are you sure you don't want to be with Artie?" Santana expects her own words to come out bitten, fat with the jealousy she's taken to calling _friendly _in her head to stop what's running underneath it from rearing up and eating her alive. The words don't sound harsh. They're quiet: so quiet that Brittany steps closer to hear.

When Brittany processes the words, she tilts her head. "I'll see him on Monday, remember? I thought we were having dinner and watching _Easy A_?"

"I just thought… y'know, maybe you'd rather see Wheels." Santana's words aren't bitten, still: they're even quieter now. The quietness surprises her. The flooding anger she felt walking up the path has fled from her, and now she feel queasy: unsure why she's here; unsure why she was angry; unsure why now she isn't. Brittany's still looking at her, and the composure on her face and in her limbs-the holding-stillness that usually makes Santana feel calm-suddenly makes her irritated, like someone's tickling the undersides of her feet, or like Finn is laughing at his own jokes, or Coach Sue is picking someone other than her to star in a routine. The anger rushes back, only now it's strange, like it's been strangled into a new shape.

"What, Brittany? Why are you staring at me?" Once the words spill out, Santana crosses her arms and steps back; she expects Brittany to look wounded, but Brittany just looks hard. It makes Santana's frown slip for a second, surprised.

"I'm staring at you because you're acting weird. Of course I want to see you. Won't you come inside and order dinner with me? Please?"

Santana doesn't recognize the force that wraps around Brittany's words. It's new, and it's only because of the shock that she follows Brittany blindly into the house rather than let her frustration spin her around in the other direction.

* * *

After pizza, and the movie, and then more pizza, Santana watches over and past the sleeping face next to her, to Brittany's oversized blue clock, where the second hand ticks past fifty-nine minutes past eleven over to twelve o'clock. Her eyes keep following the second hand as it smoothly turns in a circle.

Brittany's there, next to her. It feels like a madness. It feels right and wrong at once, like Santana is wearing her _Cheerios_ jacket and her Sunday dress together, like she's walking through Lima and swimming at the beach, like she's listening to music and also trying to make music. It feels like every part of her fits into another part here and somewhere else, and she can't get the parts into an order that makes sense.


	4. Monday, February 13, 2012

Brittany had already delivered her first gift-it's playing in Santana's car, now, on repeat-but after getting called into Principal Figgins's office, she decided there needed to be another gift in between the first and second, because Santana's face still looked pinched, even after Brittany had run her hands over Santana's back, over and over, just the way she likes. So Brittany had pulled on her hand after they'd eaten off one another's lunch trays, stood up, led her out to the parking lot, and informed her they were going to ditch school.

Now _Monster Mash_ is straining out of Santana's speakers, and the pinched look is fading like a blush.

"Where are we going, though, Britt? You have to tell me. I'm driving."

Brittany sing-songs her answer. "You'll seeee… But turn left, now, ok?"

Santana quickly sets her indicator, checks her mirrors, and seconds later pulls a hard left. "Brittany! You need to give me more warning, ok?" When Santana's giggle runs into her words, Brittany knows the needling memory of Figgins's office is fading.

"Okee-dokee pookie." Brittany grins with her tongue between her teeth and dances in her seat to _Monster Mash_ as Santana continues to laugh.

Santana keeps driving, slower now that she knows Brittany is set on only giving her one direction at a time. With each instruction, she realizes that Brittany is looking at her intently, and she glances in flashes out of the corner of her eye while speaking. "Brittany S. Pierce, why are you looking at me funny?"

Brittany just grins.

"Is this some kind of test?"

Brittany keeps grinning.

"Ok… um, let's see. Are you taking me to Tubbs's secret society?"

Brittany giggles and shakes her head.

"No? Hmmm." Santana gives an exaggerated look of confusion and narrows her eyes. "Are you just waiting to see if I figure out where we're going?"

Brittany laughs again. "Yeah. You're kinda slow, for such a smartypants."

Santana smiles, but Brittany sees something pass over her face, that thing she's named _Santana's not-quite-a-frown_. "What?" she whispers, quiet.

Santana turns her head, but keeps her eyes on the traffic. "Nothing, just, I'm not the smartypants in this relationship, is all." Santana shakes her head slightly, then speaks again. "Where am I going here? Left, by any chance?"

"Oh my God, you totally got it, didn't you?"

Santana grins. "We're going to Cedar Point?"

Brittany whoops, and reaches over to depress the indicator for Santana. "We so are going to Cedar Point. And we're gonna make out, in public, so much that we'll get all these stares from judgey people, and it's not even gonna matter, because it's not school, and no one can stop us from loving each other."

Santana's grin has become miniature: a ghost of the toothy laugh that came seconds before, but Brittany thinks it looks bigger, too.

"Britt, you're perfect, you know?"

* * *

The lines for the roller-coasters are small, since it's Monday; Brittany debates taking advantage of Santana's smiles to nudge her towards the Mean Streak: Santana's pet peeve in an entire park of roller-coaster pet peeves.

"Santana, what do you think: is today the day you do MS?" Brittany's taken to referring to the ride's initials, mainly because it startles Santana less that way.

"Britt, I have said it before, and I will say it every single time you ask. That. Roller. Coaster. Is. Not. Right."

"Oh, Santana, really? I had no idea. Please inform me." Santana laughs to see the flash in Brittany's eyes-the flash no one else notices, the one that says _I know perfectly well what's going on here, thanks very much_.

"Why, yes, Ms. Brittany,"-Santana enjoys the delight on Brittany's face at her formal address-"since you asked so very nicely, I will oblige you. The MS is unnatural. It is made of-" Santana pauses for effect, arranging her face into a shocked expression, then continues, "wood. No roller coaster should _ever _be made of _wood_."

Brittany rolls her eyes. "Ok, ok. Woodstock Express?" Brittany starts off in the direction of the junior coaster in Snoopy Land, already knowing the answer to her question is _Yes, please, Britt_.

* * *

After the Woodstock Express, Brittany decides to try again. She tugs on Santana's hand this time while asking. "Pleaaase, Santana."

"Britt, it's, like, spinning in a balloon. In the air."

Brittany frowns, and the beginning of a pleading look appears around her eyes. "Plus, " Santana says while squinting dramatically, then recites the plastic plaque at the entrance to the ride, "'Height requirement 42 inches or accompanied by a responsible person.'" Santana looks at Brittany devilishly. "I don't know, Britt. Are you 42 inches tall? Because I know for sure you ain't accompanied by no responsible person."

Brittany grins and squeezes Santana's hand, tugging her closer while she is spinning around and walking away from the ride entrance, now with Santana's hand around her waist. She walks spread-legged and silly while keeping Santana tucked behind her, walking in stride.

"You coulda just said you were scared, Santana. It's only me here."

Santana nuzzles into Brittany's hair, right at her neck where it smells best, and pretends to be scandalized. "What? How dare you. Santana Lopez is never scared."

Brittany laughs from somewhere deep down, and pulls their path in the direction of the food stalls.

* * *

In front of the Antique Cars, Brittany realizes that it's the first time they've been to the amusement park since they started dating. She pulls Santana in for a kiss, gratified for a minute before their lips touch that there's a line, so they can both enjoy the fact that they're kissing, outside, with no one to stop them. She feels Santana smile against her, and tastes French fries and cotton candy, a taste that is pink and yellow to Brittany, outside and summer.

Once they're snug in their car, and Santana has told Brittany to drive-"Because you wanted to do MS _and_ the balloons, and I said no"-Brittany places an arm around Santana's shoulders so she can drive one handed, like a cad. Santana laughs. "You stud, Brittany Pierce."

Brittany turns to kiss her while steering. "I like when you call me my whole name."

Brittany keeps driving and they lapse into a gentle silence. Once they're in a quiet place of the ride, Santana starts humming, soft, in broken little phrases. Brittany stills and lets the tune come together before speaking low. "What are you humming, San?"

Santana looks surprised that she was humming out loud; she pauses, and looks at Brittany, then sings a verse to _The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face_ softly. Brittany smiles before kissing her, then pulls back, laughing. "You know what just occurred to me?"

Santana looks confused and shakes her head.

"An awesome mash-up."

"With _The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face_?"

Brittany nods. "Yeah, sing me those lines again?"

Santana takes a breath, and sings louder, this time, from the third verse, the one that Santana says is written for them. When she breaks after "And it will last till the end of time, my love," Brittany starts smiling. Santana takes a breath and continues, mirroring Brittany's smile in expectation, and sings.

"The first time ever I saw-"

"My cup, my cup, saying what's up, to my cup!" Brittany cuts her off exactly on time, splicing her light voice down into Santana's, startling her so much that she laughs when she hears the new conclusion to her line. Brittany sings the last word jubilantly, receiving Santana's smile and then her kiss, happily, loudly.


	5. Monday, February 11, 2013

Santana has ignored everything in her room, ignored the date, ignored the time, and spent an entire weekend in bed-alone. As Monday announces itself in the form of a shrill alarm, she sleepily punches the button off and turns over and away from it.

Brittany's not there, and it is a madness.

* * *

The text from Sam flashes back and forth over the display of Brittany's phone as her thumb plays idly over the screen. She turns to look out the window. Lord Tubbington runs his side along her calves; Brittany bends at the waist to scoop him up. She keeps staring out the window, then she turns in decision. The blue clock on her dresser gets delicately wrapped in a scarf and buried under her underwear.

Lord Tubbington squirms free, and Brittany doesn't bother chasing him.


	6. Friday, February 14, 2014

Pre-dawn light pushes through drapes that haven't been pulled closed. Santana half-rolls; her hand reaches out until it finds another one. She looks through half-shut eyes to the table on her side of the bed, where a black and a blue clock sit side by side, the blue one set one minute faster than the black. She watches as, on the left, the blue clock's second hand ticks over to six o'clock, and then waits a full minute to watch the black clock's display blink from 05:59 to 06:00.

Brittany's hand flexes in her own. Santana rolls onto her side fully and looks at Brittany's face. Her eyes remain closed in the seconds before she wakes up. It's Santana's favorite moment. A flutter passes through Brittany's eyelids and then she's still for less than a second and then she's awake. Santana looks over her face. She starts at Brittany's brow, smooth, still, from dreaming, to the places beside her lips waiting to dimple, to where strands of hair have fallen across her cheek, and last, always last, to her eyes, which always look gray-blue in the morning, and are open now, fogged with unknowing for a minute then clear as they see Santana inches away.

Brittany's hand flexes again at the same moment the smile appears that was waiting to fill the spaces around her mouth. Santana thinks maybe the contraction of Brittany's hand and the quirk of her lips are connected by a string, like a kite's. Brittany that can't stay still and who, when her limbs move, can't not smile. And Santana who can't not kiss her.

Brittany shuts her eyes again when Santana's lips find hers and makes a noise that's more than a hum but still not a word, an in-between thing that says _good morning_ and _hi_ and _kiss me again? kiss me more_ and _I love you_ all at once. Santana tucks her lips around Brittany's top one and then her bottom and nudges Brittany's nose with her own and takes her face in her hands. Santana can feel a rising in Brittany's body and, like her own body isn't even her own, it wraps itself over and around Brittany's abdomen and hips and voids the space between them. She rests her palms on the gray sheets either side of Brittany's head and lets her hips fall in between Brittany's legs.

When she gasps back from Brittany's lips and opens her eyes, Brittany's remain closed, though she's smiling. Her lips part like she's about to speak, but then her eyes flicker open instead. She looks at Santana like there's something she wants to say. Santana waits but whatever was going to be said is lost when she feels the briefest brush of Brittany's bare skin as she lets her legs fall wider open and nudges upwards so both their t-shirts roll up in bunches and Santana can feel the dip between Brittany's navel and where her panties start. She is hanging on to the feeling that Brittany was about to speak but it's like trying to catch bubbles in hot hands and she can't-they evaporate-and, besides, then Brittany runs her hands over Santana's back and rests one at the base of her spine and one at the back of her neck. She's holding Santana together in a way that blanks out anything else she might have been feeling. She's underneath Santana, but it's as though her unspoken words are everywhere in the room.

Santana kisses more deeply and receives Brittany's angled hips with her own until each pulse of Brittany's body up from the mattress is answered with a slope downwards with her own stomach, their bellies still meeting where their t-shirts have ridden up, Santana's heart beating everywhere over her skin. She rests all her weight on one arm so she can place a hand between them and feel the slow urgency of both their breathing compress against her palm and knuckles at once, and then draws her fingers up lazily, rolling the blue fabric of Brittany's shirt up over her breasts and tugging it so it's pushed under her armpits and circling around her chest and back and waiting to be lifted off.

Brittany pushes on her shoulders and rolls Santana onto her back so her own shirt can come fully off, pulling it from Santana's grasp and gently tossing it off the bed so she can take Santana's shirt, too, and then straddles her, her knees drawn up in parentheses around Santana's hips and drawing herself closer where Santana can feel heat between Brittany's legs meeting her own warmth. They're both in underwear now with the sheets making soft ridges where they've rolled and the quilts balled at the base of the bed and she forgets-forgets everything else-and can only feel her body stutter up and she can smell Brittany's warm sleeping skin and the deeper singing smell of her wanting Santana. She lets her mouth drift and kiss swathes down Brittany's neck and pools them in the place over her collarbone; she hears Brittany's breath catch and kisses harder, finding Brittany's lips again to swallow the taste of her caught breathing. She lets her own gasping meet Brittany's and keeps kissing her, to find that feeling when it's too much, and she can't not be touching Brittany, when her hands won't be still. Brittany tugs at Santana's panties and she thinks she can feel each of the pads of Brittany's fingers, each one making a determined path down, down, until the fabric runs off the slope of her thighs and she's kicking them off and holding the warmth for a while longer between her legs-anticipating the swell of it as Brittany touches her-and then Brittany's pulling off her own underwear and shifting in the worn-in places where their bodies have met so many times before, and kissing furiously, wanting so much it feels like a missing heartbeat in Santana's chest, like nothing and something meeting together and pushing and she doesn't care about anything except her left hand running over Brittany's skin-trilling like it's passing over a piano-until she's found where Brittany's wet and she's making a motion that she swears she could do in her sleep.

Brittany's still over her, straddling her, and her eyes are open when Santana touches her, and Santana's glad for it, because it means she can see Brittany's pupils small into tiny circles and the _yes_ start in the quirk of her lips and the angling of her head back, her hair making ribbons down around her face and her gaze meeting Santana and her hand still-or again-pressed into the small of Santana's back until she pulls back upright, and pulls Santana with her, so Brittany's straddling her, in her lap and drawing her hands up Santana's back and holding on to her around her face and she re-finds Santana's mouth while drawing herself closer, so Santana's hand between her legs can find more of her, touch more places, draw more breath between her lips.

Santana's fingers slip as Brittany's hips cant and lift, and she stops to roll Brittany back over to how she was at the start, so she's tight over Brittany's body and one hand is back beside Brittany's head and her hand, her hand is still there, moving between Brittany's legs and meeting the need that feels like a wanting in blue-a longtime wanting, a thing that's been there for so long she lost its name somewhere, somehow.

She doesn't think to find a new name for it, it's just the feeling of Brittany's legs tightening and her gasping sounds coming faster and the pull of Brittany's palm at her back and the rushing feeling as she knows Brittany's there-Brittany's _there_-and it's Brittany's orgasm in her own fingers, it's Brittany's smile, Brittany's no-words breathing, it's Brittany, Brittany, Brittany.


End file.
